Sins of the Flesh

“Over not being invited to a party thrown by people they didn’t know? Jess’s personal friends, unrelated to her work?”

“You’ll understand better when the evening’s over,” Rufus said, “and I’d rather you experienced what’s going to happen in the same ignorance Jess felt at the time, which is why I don’t want to go into explanations this minute. Just take my word for it, Jess’s shrinks felt left out in the cold, and thought they deserved to be let into the warm.” He shrugged, looked wry. “A work situation can be uncomfortable when the people who consider themselves indispensable get it into their heads that they’re unappreciated. They carped and nagged.”

“Jess is a very strong and fairly ruthless woman,” Delia said, unconvinced. “Senior professional staff behaving like children? As an explanation, Rufus, it’s weak, though I don’t doubt it’s the one fed to you and Rha—and possibly Ivy too.”

“Point taken. Personally I tend to think that Ari Melos or one of the Castigliones caught Jess out in a bureaucratic error she’d find embarrassing to explain.”

“More likely, yes. Capital criminals incarcerated for life as insane provide institutions like HI with their patients, and the paperwork is a nightmare.” Delia grinned. “You’ve whetted my curiosity, I’m dying to find out what’s so special about this kind of shindig. I must confess that the arrival of the shrinks looks a little like cabbage moths invading an orchid house.”

Jess and Ivy bore down on her; Rufus escaped.

“You both look sensational,” she said, kissing Jess’s cheek and, on a little upward leap, Ivy’s chin.

“I’m sorry we were so late,” Jess said. “A conference.”

“On an August Saturday?”

“Or an August Sunday,” Jess answered dryly. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t happen to you, Delia.”

“Oh, I understand. I love Rha and Rufus.”

“I knew you would,” Ivy said.

“Maybe it was better that you meet Rha and Rufus without our moral support,” Jess added, enigmatic black eyes gleaming. “It’s easy to see you’re in your element. Excuse me, girls, I see the great Dolores Kenny.” And off went Jess, looking excited.

Despite her stunning appearance, Ivy seemed—unhappy?—unwell?—uneasy? Something was wrong, though Delia fancied it had nothing to do with Rha, Rufus, Jess or the shindig. Perhaps she felt caught in the middle of the situation Jess’s shrinks provoked? But why should she feel that more than Jess did? No matter how she might have felt in 1962, when the contretemps occurred, by 1969 Jess obviously had come to terms with it.

Delia put her hand on Ivy’s arm. “Are you well, dear?”

A pair of beautiful blue eyes fell to rest on Delia’s face, a startled expression in their depths; then they began to fill with tears. The finely painted red mouth quivered for a moment, then Ivy visibly brought her unruly emotions under control, and smiled. “Yes, Delia, I’m well. But thank you for asking. You’re a very perceptive person.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Ivy dear, but I can tell when the people I’m fond of are troubled.”

“Troubled … Yes, troubled is a good word for my state of mind. It’s purely personal, and by tomorrow I’ll be fine. Do you believe in right and wrong? I mean the kind of thing they used to teach us in first grade?”

“Before we understood the importance of grey, you mean?”

“Yes, exactly.” She sipped her martini. “Let’s go over there for a minute, do you mind? No one will notice us.”

Curious and disturbed, Delia followed her towering companion to a Victorian love seat tucked in a corner and partially hidden by the graceful curling fronds of a belmoreana palm, and sat the opposite way to Ivy, yet heads together. How like the Victorians! she thought. Nether regions barred from each other, upper regions in close proximity. Keep the lovers chaste!

“What’s the matter?” Delia asked, disposing of their glasses on the broad arm separating her from Ivy.

“I’m considerably older than Rha,” Ivy said, “and Ivor, our father, was chauffeur, bodyguard, caretaker and God knows what else to the third Antonio Carantonio.”

Considerably older than forty? Shocked, Delia stared into the face near hers, but couldn’t see a single sign of age.

“I’ve lived in Little Busquash all my life,” Ivy continued, oblivious to the sensations she was triggering in Delia. “Rha’s and my mother was—was ‘simple’—she couldn’t read or write, and was barely capable of keeping house. When Antonio III died in 1920 and Dr. Nell inherited, Ivor kept on running things for her. Mind you, she was hardly ever there—university and medical school took priority. I loved Dr. Nell! When she disappeared my father was like a man demented, though I didn’t realize until later that he had expected to be mentioned in her will, that all his frantic behavior was really just Ivor looking for a will. Well, there wasn’t one, so he had to ingratiate himself with the new heir, Fenella—also Nell.”

Delia looked about uneasily, not sure where this story was going, and beginning to wonder if it should be aired in such a public place. Ivy proceeded to confirm her impressions.

“My father was a very strange man. He was heterosexual and homosexual—” She broke off when Delia grasped her hand, looking surprised. “What is it?” she asked.

“Ivy, now isn’t the right time or place for this. Are you free tomorrow? Could you come to lunch at my condo and tell me then?”

Relief made Ivy’s face sag; all at once Delia could see some of those extra years, even if not enough. “Oh, yes! I’ll come.”

Smiling as she left Ivy to the attentions of a group of her models, Delia joined the Doctors Castiglione. No need to conceal her profession from them; thanks to Jess, they knew she was a cop.

“It’s clear that you don’t feel like a fish out of water here, Delia,” said Dr. Moira. “You fit right into this menagerie.”

“Is that how you see it? As a menagerie?”

“What Moira means,” said Dr. Fred, “is that you’re extremely clever and resourceful.”

“Menagerie?” Delia persisted.

Dr. Moira sniggered. “A collection of queer animals, anyway.”

And I begin to see why they are disliked, she thought; they patronize. I’ll bet their qualifications are very ordinary, but does that include Ari Melos? Poor Jess! Public service salaries don’t buy brilliant helpers. “Queer as in homosexual?” she asked.

“Queer as in peculiar,” said Dr. Moira.

“Why come, if these are not your kind of people?”

The Castigliones stared at her as if she were—peculiar.

“Our abiding passion,” said Dr. Fred.

“And that is?”

“Music. Moira and I are trying to put an HI orchestra together—I conduct, she plays violin. Music does indeed soothe the savage breast.”

“Admirable,” said Delia.

Dr. Ari Melos and his new bride arrived, each drinking red wine; Melos was very pleased to be here, but Rose looked to be out of her depth.

“A Rha salon is one of the high points of my year,” Melos said, “and I can’t wait for Rose to experience what she’s only heard of until now. I wonder what treats there are in store?”

And grudgingly the Castigliones nodded.

Well, well, we move ahead, thought Delia; whatever it is has to do with music.

Todo Satara sidled up. Bent on being awkward? Delia got in first, hoping to divert him.

“How many of the Asylum inmates are HI patients, Doctor?” she asked, assuming an interested expression.

“All of them, if we wish,” Melos said, apparently unaware of Todo’s enmity. “However, at any one time I would say no more than twenty are actively participating in HI programs. You must surely know, Sergeant, that the M’Naghten Rules are so archaic a ‘guilty by reason of insanity’ verdict at trial is rare—the dementia goes on full display after the prison term commences. Anyone in the Asylum is clinically insane, which gives us a fascinatingly rich patient pool to draw from.”